Historic Timbuktu Texts Saved From Burning

Islamic militants attempted to destroy a Timbuktu library storing thousands of ancient texts, but curators managed to hide away much of the priceless material until French-led forces captured the historic town. WSJ's Aaron Jaffe explains how on the News Hub. Photo: Getty

By

Drew Hinshaw

Updated Feb. 1, 2013 3:00 p.m. ET

TIMBUKTU, Mali—French tanks were closing in on this storied caravan city on the night of Jan. 23, when the al Qaeda-backed militants who had governed Timbuktu since April left a departing blow. They broke into one of the world's most valuable libraries, ripping centuries-old manuscripts from shelves.

Then they torched these priceless artifacts, in a scene of destruction that horrified scholars around the world.

But in a relief for this beleaguered city, and in a triumph for bibliophiles, the vast bulk of the library was saved by wily librarians and a security guard—with an assist from modern technology.

An estimated 28,000 of the library's artifacts were smuggled out of town by donkey cart, said Prof. Abdoulaye Cissé and security guard Abba Alhadi, who worked to relocate the documents. Gunmen managed to burn only a few hundred papers, but even those were backed up digitally, said the library's bookkeepers.

"We knew that what we had here was threatened," said Mr. Cissé, a history professor and acting director for Timbuktu's Ahmed Baba Institute for Higher Studies and Islamic Research. "So I said, 'We're going to have to start moving them out.' "

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The rescue mission for some of Africa's most precious written history represents the latest example of Timbuktu's collective determination to preserve its heritage, amid a long line of threats to these irreplaceable artifacts. Aside from its 14th-century mud mosques, and a fabled name, Timbuktu houses at least 100,000 ancient manuscripts that date from the 11th century, and account for some of the medieval world's most sophisticated scholarship. Subjects include medicine, law, astronomy and botany.

Still, the treasures of Timbuktu have been looted and smashed by a succession of invading armies, the most recent being al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb, or AQIM.

In April, the al Qaeda affiliate, alongside local allies, took control of this dun-colored town—home to 50,000 people—and began imposing strict Islamic law. The punishments are spelled out on a lined piece of paper still left in the Malian Solidarity Bank that the rebels made their Islamic Police Headquarters. For petty theft, one hundred blows. For an affair with a married woman, death.

The gunmen also bulldozed shrines deemed un-Islamic, some as old as the 15th century. The International Criminal Court has said the destructive binge could constitute a war crime, and is considering an investigation.

On Sunday, al Qaeda's wrecking spree came to a close, as French and Malian tanks trundled into town. The parade brought locals dancing into the street, playing music (which had been banned) and smoking cigarettes (also banned) and waving French flags.

Saving the Treasures of Timbuktu

A museum guard displays a burned manuscript at the institute. Benoit Tessier/Reuters

The next challenge is to hold the towns. French troops are looking to hand over the duty to a West African coalition of troops, who aren't as well armed as AQIM.

France on Thursday conducted airstrikes on a mountain range in Mali's northeast where Islamist insurgents are believed to have sought refuge, as Diocunda Traoré, Mali's interim president, signaled he was ready to begin conditional negotiations with ethnic Tuareg groups that have claimed the country's north as their independent homeland.

The Conflict in Mali

Others were plastered into the house's walls, stashed there by a great-grandfather who had accused French soldiers of stealing and destroying his parchments when they conquered this desert in 1905.

The sepia-toned pages are penned in ornate Arabic. "We have more that belong to us, but they're in France," he said.

More recently, technology offered a way to put Timbuktu's ancient manuscripts out of reach of pillagers.

In 2008, the University of Cape Town helped finance a multistory, glass-paneled library and preservation complex, whose staff sought to digitize Timbuktu's written heritage.

Locals were slow to bring in their papers, though. Just 2,000 texts were stored at the center, said Mr. Cissé, and other library workers. "They prefer to look after it themselves, because it's their cultural riches," he said. "They're all over the city."

About 28,000 parchments stayed in Timbuktu's older, more modest library nearby. Both institutions came under threat in April, when the city fell to separatist rebels fighting to carve this northern half of Mali into an independent nation for the Tuareg people.

The gunmen looted the town, and several tried to break down the doors of the new library.

AQIM and an allied militia called Ansar Dine stopped the looting, said Mr. Cissé. Ansar Dine's leader, Iyad ag Ghaly—famous in Mali for his reclusiveness—personally gave the curator his phone number.

"He said, if these people ever come back to try again, you call us," said Mr. Cissé.

Islamists sent a more-menacing message on Dec. 30, when they came to the old library, which houses the bulk of the literature. They told the guard, Mr. Alhadi, that they planned to convert the building into a Quranic school.

Over the next two nights, Messrs. Cissé and Alhadi met in darkness, and began stuffing texts into empty burlap millet sacks. They stacked the bags onto donkey carts, stashed them in bedrooms, and over the next few days, carted them to small boats along the nearby Niger River. From there, the boats sailed four days south to the first town under government control, Mopti.

A truck, the two men said, carried the priceless artifacts to the capital, Bamako, where officials with the University of Cape Town said they are safe.

On Wednesday, Ansar Dine gunmen came to the library, said Mr. Alhadi. The elderly guard refused to let them in, then hobbled away on his cane. The militants broke in, taking a refrigerator, mattresses and plastic chairs—but no manuscripts.

Across town, Mr. Konaté had a simpler preservation method. On Tuesday, he said he saw two gunmen looking at the plaque outside his house: It reads "Biblioteque de Manuscripts," or manuscript library, a reference to his grandfather's parchment collection.

"I had no trust in them," said Mr. Konaté, a watch repairman by profession. So he emptied the shelves of his library, filled them with children's schoolwork, and stuffed his heritage into Nescafé boxes.

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